Of their time, the goal was set by dissident idealism
Cold air inside the darkness, makeshift home,
The winter birds in their towering cage,
Peering out at bare naked trees of ashen,
Ground level feeding under neon strobe
Where filled Maruthi taxis and fancy dress suits jingle
Turnstile iciness against the ancient land of Himalayas.

This is where children dream, dirt and cardboard
Cushioning their hunger with cold and fierce eyes,
Holding them close, kissing their thinning red lips,
And the concrete humming low, echoing,
Hungry beasts marching toward their grief
Like a serenade of giants rising out of the fiery ash;
Marx, Lenin and Mao reaching up in fury
With bright redness, thunder, and lightning.

They rise not for the hordes of sleep-tattered children,
They rise for the noise made of coldness, their heated
Hands wrapped in lava with the reaping of the unkind
Upon their breath. They’ll seek the cultivators of gloom,
The progenitors of war and the ravenous well-to-do
So there might be relief for the misery-born folds
Sleeping near death’s ragged claws.
Soon the beasts of winter will clap their fury
From end to end of the piercing streets
With only the names of greed upon their lips.